


Lilac and Amber

by 1848pianist



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Bisexual Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, F/M, First Kiss, First Meetings, Geralt of Rivia's Love Language is Acts of Service, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Language of Flowers, Mutual Pining, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Slow Burn, Smitten Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Touch-Starved Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Trial Of The Grasses (The Witcher), Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), Young Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Young Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:28:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28370895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1848pianist/pseuds/1848pianist
Summary: A strange light wakes Yennefer in the middle of the night, and an uninvited guest changes her life forever.Or, five times Yennefer and Geralt meet as teenagers and it's cute, and one time it's sad.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 60
Kudos: 95





	1. First Meeting

Yennefer startles awake, jerked out of sleep by a sudden flash of light brighter than the noonday sun. She props herself up on her elbows and looks around, but the barn is as dark and still as ever. It must still be the middle of the night. Yet she’s certain she saw something. That flash of light had to come from somewhere. For a moment she freezes, wondering if the barn has caught fire. But there are no flickering flames, no smell of burning straw.

Her breath stops as something rustles in the hay a few feet away from her. It’s too dark to see anything, but she can hear it moving. It’s big. At least as big as she is.

Then a pair of glowing eyes loom in front of her, and she screams. Scrambling back, she squeezes her eyes shut, waiting to feel the thing’s claws in her chest or its teeth around her throat.

“Wait!”

Pressed up against the wall of the barn, Yennefer forces open her eyes, still sure the beast is about to pounce. But it doesn’t, and it’s speaking to her with a human voice.

“Who are you?”

What an absurd question, she thinks through her terror.

“Who are _you_? What are you doing here?”

“I don’t know! Where are we?”

All she can see are those yellow eyes, hovering a few feet away from her in the darkness. Do vampires have eyes like that? Or demons? She’s heard stories of such monsters, but in her terror the details all slip from her mind like water through her fingers. She hopes whatever it is will kill her quickly, instead of drawing it out.

“Are you going to kill me?” she asks, distantly proud of herself when her voice doesn’t shake.

“No!” The eyes blink, in surprise, it seems. “Of course not. I don’t even know where I am. I just woke up, and I was here.”

“I just woke up and _you_ were here! Whoever— _whatever_ you are.”

“You know where we are, then?”

“Course I do,” she sputters. “We’re in Vengerberg.”

“Vengerberg,” the voice repeats, sounding thoughtful. “But that’s in Aedirn.”

“What are you? Why do your eyes glow like that?”

“Oh. Yes. Just a second.”

There’s another rustle, and the voice says something else in a language Yennefer doesn’t understand, and then there’s another flash of light. She flinches, but the flames don’t touch her. She opens her eyes again to the strangest sight she’s seen in her life. A man—or a boy, maybe, he looks young—holding fire in his hand. Staring at her with eyes like a cat. Even in the firelight, he has the palest skin she’s ever seen, made paler by the contrast with his dark hair. It’s as though he’s never seen the sun in his life.

He looks straight at her and smiles faintly. “One of these days I’ll be able to do that without the incantation.”

She shrinks further back against the wall. “D-demon.”

The boy frowns. “I’m not a demon. I’m Geralt. I’m a witcher.”

“A witcher?”

Yennefer has never seen a witcher before, but she’s heard of them from folk in town. She had gotten the distinct impression that they were usually more impressive than this one, who looks rather ill and underfed now that she can see his face. There are deep shadows under his strange eyes, and his cheeks are hollow, like he hasn’t eaten or slept properly in a long time. And he looks no older than she is, fifteen or sixteen at the most.

He blinks again, looking almost shy. “Well, a witcher in training. Who are you?”

“I...I’m Yennefer.”

He holds his hand out – the one not holding a ball of fire, that is. She stares at it until she realizes she’s supposed to shake it. She’s not sure she’s ever shaken hands with anyone before, let alone a lanky witcher-boy who showed up in her barn in the middle of the night.

His hands are cool and callused, his grip strong but not painful. He’s staring at her in a way that makes her want to look away, but she forces herself to hold his gaze.

“Sorry,” he says, glancing to the side. “I don’t mean to stare. I haven’t met a girl in...well, years, I suppose.”

Yennefer feels a flash of irritation, fueled by embarrassment and residual fear. “That’s why you’re staring. Because I’m a girl.”

Geralt doesn’t seem to notice her sarcasm. He’s busy looking around the barn.

“What were you doing, sleeping in here?”

It’s hard to read his expression with those yellow eyes, especially in the dark, but after a moment, Yennefer decides he isn’t making fun of her. Well, she supposes, he must have encountered all sorts of horrid and monstrous things already in his training. Maybe her twisted spine doesn’t impress him that much in comparison.

“I live here.”

“Here? What, in this barn?”

“Yes,” she snaps.

“What about your parents?”

“They live in the house next to the barn.”

“Oh.”

He looks away, finally seeming to grasp her meaning.

“So you can’t stay here.” Yennefer crosses her arms over her chest and inches away from him. “You’ve got to go back to wherever you came from.”

Geralt tilts his head to the side. “Vengerberg is a very long way away from where I came from. And I still don’t even know how I got here.”

“Can’t you just...go back?”

He spreads his arms. “How do you suggest I do that?”

“Well, I don’t know. The same way you got here. You can conjure fire and your eyes shine in the dark, how am I to know what else you can do?”

The corners of his mouth twitch. “That’s fair, I guess.”

“You guess.”

They stand staring at each other for another long while. Then, at the same moment, they begin to laugh as the absurdity of the situation dawns on them. Geralt sits down on a bale of hay, his shoulders shaking, and she joins him, covering her mouth to hold in her laughter.

“I suppose you can spend the night here, if you’ve nowhere else to go,” she says once she catches her breath. “But you’ve got to leave before first light. How far is it back to...wherever you came from?”

“Several days’ ride, at least. And that’s if I can get a horse.” He frowns again. “Either way, Vesemir’ll have my skin.”

“What if you didn’t go back? Decided to just...leave?”

“What would I do then? I’ve already been through the Trials. What else can I be now, other than a witcher?”

Yennefer sighs. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

“It’s all right.” He sighs, too. “Maybe this is all some sort of test. Another Trial of some kind.”

“But why would they send you here?”

Geralt shrugs.

Yennefer knows that she’ll be exhausted in the morning and that will only make her chores more difficult, but she finds herself not wanting to sleep. She wants to stay awake, to talk more with this strange boy who makes her laugh and shakes her hand without disgust.

“How long have you been a witcher, Geralt?”

“Hmm.” He tilts his head. “Nine years?”

“Nine!”

He laughs. “I’m sixteen.”

“You became a witcher when you were only seven?”

“You have to start early, to begin your training while you’re still young. And so the Trials can have their full effect.”

“Still, nine years...You must be nearly finished with your training, then.”

He shakes his head. “I still have quite some time left. And they say I’m to undergo further Trials—a kind of new experiment they’re trying.”

“What for?”

“To make me faster and stronger, I suppose. More resistant to magic and toxins, that sort of thing.”

“It sounds dangerous. Messing about with sorcery like that.”

“The mages know what they’re doing,” he says, but his expression turns more somber. Yennefer senses that she might be edging towards an uncomfortable subject.

“We probably ought to get some sleep,” she suggests. “You’ve got a long way to go, and I have to be up early tomorrow.”

Geralt nods. “Thank you for letting me stay the night. It was nice to meet you, Yennefer.”

She smiles, ducking her head. “I’m glad to meet you as well. Good luck with the rest of your training.”

“Thanks. Who knows? We might see each other again.”

“Not likely, unless you find a monster contract in Vengerberg someday.”

“Maybe I will. In any case, I won’t forget you.”

He puts his hand on her arm for a moment, lightly, as if he’s not sure he’s allowed to do so. Then he stands, gathering loose straw to form a second bed a few feet from hers.

“Good night, Yennefer.”

“Good night, Geralt.”

She means to wake in time to see him off at first light. But once her eyes close, sleep takes her.

When she wakes, she is alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intend to write more of this, but you know how these things go...
> 
> Update: I’ve decided this will be a 5+1 fic, updating weekly on Sundays!


	2. Second Meeting

Months pass without incident. Then, out of nowhere, Yennefer wakes up to another flash of light.

She sits up and whispers into the dark, “Geralt? Is that you?”

“Yennefer?”

“You’re back.”

“It seems so. Somehow.”

“What happened? Where did you go last time?”

“I just woke up back at Kaer—ah, at the witcher’s fortress. No one even noticed I was gone. I was sure it was a dream.”

“It’s not. It can’t be, I could never imagine this. I’ve never met a witcher before.” She smirks. “And you’ve never even met a girl.”

Though she can’t make out his face, she hears him laugh under his breath. Yennefer doesn’t know the last time she made someone laugh on purpose. Maybe never. It’s a good feeling, though a strange one.

“Come on, conjure your fire again. We haven’t all got cat eyes.”

He does, smiling just at the corner of his mouth. His smile fades when he sees her in the light.

“You’re hurt.”

He reaches out, stopping just short of touching her bottom lip, which is just starting to heal over from her father’s backhand earlier that week. She’d all but forgotten about it, but his scrutiny brings the pain stinging back. She turns her head, but he’s already drawing his hand away.

“You’re hurt, too,” she says, looking back pointedly at his impressively black eye and bruised jaw.

He shrugs. “That’s just training.”

She shrugs back, with just the one shoulder. “This is just life.”

He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes turn sad. He seems to want to say something else, but after a moment’s consideration, he sits down, settling cross-legged in front of her. She sits, too.

“What have you been doing since I was here last?”

She gives him a puzzled look. “Feeding the pigs. Gathering kindling. Cleaning up shit. What else is there to do on a farm? What have you been doing?”

“Training.”

She sighs. “Yes, but what?” She gestures at his eye. “Boxing?”

A smile flickers across his face, almost too quickly to catch. “That was just for fun. Training—hmm. We’ve been running the Trail a lot. Starting archery. Practicing tracking. Studying. History, Elder Speech, and alchemy, mostly.”

“I thought witchers used swords, not bows.”

He looks amused. “Even we have to eat.”

“I didn’t know that witchers had to study.” Yennefer wonders what it would be like, studying magic, history, and woodcraft. A welcome change from the farm, certainly.

“Sure we do. It’s better than running all the time.”

“What’s your favorite?”

His eyes light up, like he’s been waiting for someone to ask. “Alchemy. I like gathering herbs, learning the names of the plants and the different effects they have.”

“Maybe you could show me.”

He tilts his head to the side in that disarming way of his. “What do you mean?”

She nods towards the door of the barn. “We’re on the very edge of the village. It’s only a few steps to the woods. And the moon is full.”

She blushes as she makes the suggestion, realizing how it sounds. Looking at herbs isn’t the reason a girl normally invites a boy to the woods. Geralt doesn’t seem to notice, though, or find anything strange in her request.

“I’d like that. If you want to.”

She nods, feeling warmth all through her chest and down to her fingers when he smiles at her.

Though his legs are a good deal longer than hers, he slows to match her pace without seeming to think about it. His hair, longer than hers on the top and tied back behind his head, swings slightly with each of his steps. She feels a sudden urge to reach up and run her fingers over the closely shorn hair on the back and sides of his head.

He looks over at her, eyes glowing eerily in the moonlight, unsettling as an animal’s, especially with all the bruising on the side of his face. She shivers, but it’s not a bad feeling. It’s sort of thrilling, actually.

“Are you cold?” he asks.

“No. I’m fine. You’re the one without any shoes.”

He just laughs.

By now, they’ve reached the trees. Geralt walks a little ways ahead, staring intently at the ground. Looking for plants, Yennefer assumes, though even with the moonlight it’s all she can do to avoid tripping over a root.

“Here,” he says after a moment. “There’s some witch hazel. And this is verbena.”

She has to crouch to see the flower he’s indicating, but it’s worth it for the scent alone, clean and floral. She closes her eyes to appreciate it better. When she looks up, she’s surprised to see Geralt looking at her instead of the plants. Seeming almost embarrassed to be caught looking, he glances away the moment she notices. She flushes again, but if he was staring because of her awkward posture he doesn’t comment on it.

“Do you want go back?”

She shakes her head. “No, let’s keep going.”

They wander deeper into the woods, Yennefer staying a few steps behind Geralt. Her steps seem so loud compared to his, crashing through the brush while he walks soundlessly.

Suddenly, he puts a hand out and catches her wrist, signaling her to stop.

“Shh. Something’s moving up ahead.”

She freezes. “Wolves?” They’re still close to the village, but she’s never been in the woods so late at night.

Geralt shakes his head, peering ahead of them into the night. Slowly, he lets out a breath.

“Oh, Yen, look.”

The shortening of her name floods her body with warmth from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. Another shiver runs through her. She finds herself hoping he’ll use it again.

Geralt tugs gently at her wrist, apparently mistaking her movement for fear.

“It’s all right. Look.”

She follows his gaze to the clearing ahead of them, where she can just make out the triangular ears and bushy tail of a fox. As she watches, it lowers its head, licking at a small shape near the ground she soon realizes are its kits. They’re hardly bigger than the skinny cat who sometimes shares her barn, all twitching noses and black button eyes.

“Oh.”

Geralt moves his hand from her arm to the middle of her back, their heads close together like he’s about to share a secret with her. They stay like that, neither one of them moving, hardly even daring to breathe, until the foxes move on, slipping away into the dense undergrowth on the other side of the clearing.

Yennefer laughs shakily. “I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

“I’m glad I got to show you, then.” He looks at her, his eyes warm even in the darkness. “We probably ought go back, though, if we want to get any sleep tonight.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she sighs.

They go back to the barn together, moving slowly as if to make the short walk last longer. This time, Geralt lies down in the hay facing her, his arm tucked under his head as a pillow.

“I suppose you’ll be gone again when I wake up,” Yennefer says.

“I guess so. I still don’t really know how this works.”

“You were right, though. That we’d see each other again.”

He smiles as his eyes drift shut. “I hope this isn’t the last time.”

“I hope so, too,” she admits, almost too quiet to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am EXCITED for the next update, y’all. If you thought Geralt was sweet in this one, hold on tight.


	3. Third Visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for this chapter for mentions of child abuse

This time, it’s only a month before Geralt reappears in the middle of the night. Yennefer wakes up to him crouching in front of her, holding flames in his palm and smiling with the corner of his mouth. His eye and jaw have healed by now, and the moon outside is full again, revealing a faint, nearly invisible dusting of freckles Yennefer had missed the first time she saw him.

“Hello again.”

“Geralt.”

She sits up, stiff and aching. This time it’s not from chores but from the beating she received for not haggling enough over the price of mutton at market. The merchants always overcharge her, and she knows from experience that there’s no point trying to talk them down, not that her stepfather cares for that excuse. She winces, her hand automatically going to her sore ribs.

Geralt follows the movement with his eyes, a scowl forming on his face.

“What happened?”

“It’s nothing.” Yennefer doesn’t want to spend the little time she has with Geralt talking about her own miseries. She wants even less for him to think she’s weak, easily pushed around. It’s just that she's learned by now that sometimes it’s better not to fight back. It only brings more pain.

“You’re hurt.” He looks up at her, eyes fierce. “Your parents hit you, don’t they?”

She can’t meet his gaze. “Only my stepfather,” she mutters.

Geralt’s free hand clenches into a fist. His mouth tightens into a hard line.

“I can make sure he doesn’t.”

Her eyes snap to his. “Don’t you dare,” she hisses. “You’ll only anger him, and then I’ll have to deal with him once you’re gone.”

For a moment, she thinks he’s not going to listen. Then he sighs, the fight draining out of him.

“I’m sorry. You’re right. Is there really nothing I can do to help?”

She shakes her head. “I just have to stay out of his way for a few days. Do a bit of extra work around the farm. He’ll forget about it soon enough.”

Geralt frowns, thinking. “Let me help you with your chores, then.”

She stiffens. “What? No, you don’t have to do that—”

“I want to. I must make things difficult for you, keeping you awake all night. Besides, it’ll go twice as fast with me around.” He scrambles to his feet. “Come on. Tomorrow morning you’ll already be ahead.”

All Yennefer can do is follow him out of the barn, hissing at him to stay quiet before he wakes up the whole house.

He flashes a grin over his shoulder. “I’m quieter than you are.”

She isn’t fast enough to stop him before he reaches the pens, where he picks up one of the buckets she uses to carry water for the pigs. “Just tell me what needs to be done.”

“ _Nothing_ , as far as you’re concerned. Give me the bucket.”

She grabs the handle and tries to pull it away from him, but despite his slender frame, he hangs on easily, even when she uses both hands to tug with all her strength. He grins at her, the bastard, immovable as a boulder without even a hint of exertion. She could probably fight with him over the bucket all night and he wouldn’t so much as break a sweat.

“ _Geralt_.”

“Yennefer,” he replies with mock seriousness.

Infuriated, she kicks him in the shin. He lets go of the bucket, from surprise rather than pain, she thinks, but the effect is the same. She spins on her heel and stalks back towards the barn.

She hasn’t gone two paces when he slips up behind her, catching her around the waist and pinning her arms to her side. She jumps, but to her surprise she finds the sudden contact electrifying, not terrifying. Though she wants to be outraged – she _should_ be outraged – her body betrays her wishes, delighted to be touched in a manner that isn’t painful. It’s all she can do not to sink back into his arms like a kitten being picked up by the scruff of the neck.

“Let me go!”

“Shh.” She can feel him shaking with suppressed laughter. “You’ll wake everyone up.”

“Good! Let them see you, I don’t care.”

She squirms, trying to shake him off, but he holds her still effortlessly, his grip as unyielding as iron. Even with the bruises on her ribs, he isn’t hurting her at all. He’s just…

Infuriating.

“I will bite you,” she hisses.

“Fine. Go ahead.” The smile in his voice is audible. “Let go of the bucket, Yen.”

 _Yen_.

No one has ever called her that before him. At the endearment, she relaxes without thinking about it, going limp in his arms. He waits a moment to be sure she’s not about to claw his eyes out and eases the handle from her grip.

“You’re terrifying, do you know that?” He circles around to face her, still smiling. “Have you thought about becoming a witcher?”

She glares up at him, not bothering to dignify that with a response. The way he’s looking at her, amused and playful, is familiar to her. She has seen that look from plenty of others in the village, always tinged with the cruelness of mockery. But there's something different in Geralt's eyes. Something like fondness. Strange, this witcher-boy.

Suddenly, his expression changes.His eyes widen and his hand goes to his throat, where the chain of a necklace or medallion is visible under the collar of his shirt.

“Wait—what are you doing?” he asks her.

“I’m not doing anything. Stop teasing.”

“I’m not. Here, look.” He pulls the chain over his head and drops the medallion, engraved with the head of a snarling wolf, into her hands. It twitches and jumps as though alive, making her tighten her fingers around it instinctively.

“What is this?” She takes a step back. “How is it doing that?”

“It’s the symbol of my school. It vibrates like that when it senses magic.”

“Magic?”

Geralt nods. “For it to be that active, it could only be coming from you.”

“What? I can’t do magic!”

He frowns. “Well, it’s never been wrong before.”

Yennefer looks around them wildly, as though a sorcerer might spring up from the ground beneath her feet. “Maybe it's you. You can do magic.”

“Not really. Only Signs, not real spells. And the medallion doesn’t react to me.”

“That’s useful.” She stares back at the medallion, feeling something like fear. She would know if she could do magic, wouldn’t she? And she wouldn’t be sleeping in her family’s barn, taking care of the pigs.

After another moment, the medallion finally stops humming. She hands it back to him, and he slips it back around his neck, not taking his eyes from her.

“I can’t do magic,” she repeats.

“So you said.” He holds up the bucket. “Will you let me help you now?”

“I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself.” Yennefer crosses her arms over her chest, setting her jaw stubbornly.

He tilts his head. “I know you are. The point is, you don’t have to. So, will you let me help?”

She stares at him, waiting for him to blink first.

“Fine,” she says, when it’s clear he’s not going to. “Fill that up with water.”

His eyes light up a little, like she’s fulfilling his dearest wish by allowing him to tend to the pigs in her stead.

“Just the one? I can carry two at once, at least.”

“Don’t show off. Hasn’t anyone told you it’s rude?”

He at least has the decency to look a bit chagrined before he walks over to the well behind the house. She watches him coming back, carrying the full bucket one-handed with ease. He stops and holds it out in front of her.

She stares at him blankly. “What are you giving it to me for? In the trough.” She jerks her head toward the pigpen.

He does as she says, then turns back to her, leaning back against the wall of the pen. He crosses his arms, looking immensely satisfied with himself.

“What next?”

Yennefer is beginning to enjoy this, though she refuses to show him that. She stalks forward and looks over the fence.

“Pen could do with cleaning.”

“All right. Meaning what?”

“What do you think it means? Shovel the shit, replace the hay. Try not to wake up the pigs, if you please.”

He stares at her, tilting his head to the side, and for a moment she thinks he’s going to refuse.

“Well?” she teases. “What are you waiting for? Go on.”

The corners of his mouth twitch, but he goes without complaint.

Yennefer watches from the fence as he picks up the pitchfork and glances back in her direction, raising an eyebrow. That look is back on his face – like fondness. Like he’s seeking her approval, of all things. Strange, this witcher-boy.

She expects it to be nearly morning by the time he finishes, but it’s still the middle of the night when he puts down the pitchfork and returns to her for inspection. He hasn’t even broken a sweat.

He’d done a good job, she has to admit, and in half the time it would have taken her. He’d even avoided waking the pigs. When one of them had stirred, he’d calmed it instantly with an odd twisting movement of his hand.

And he said he couldn’t do magic.

“And now?” he asks.

“Now I’m tired,” she says.

He laughs quietly. “You’re tired?”

"It's late." She softens. “You’ve done enough. More than enough. Come on, let’s go back.”

“Are you sure?”

She nods. He follows her back to the barn and lies down facing her again, even closer than last time. Close enough that she can see his expression, even in the dark. His eyes are fixed on her face, and he seems to be working up to saying something.

“What?” she asks.

He takes a breath and exhales, loud enough for her to hear.

“I really like you, Yen.”

She stares at him, nonplussed. What a strange thing to say, she thinks, after an hour spent cleaning up pig shit.

“Okay...?”

This doesn’t seem to be the response he’s looking for; his face falls a little.

“I like you too,” she tries.

This time he smiles, even showing a bit of his teeth, which she’s never seen him do before. Still smiling, he reaches across the distance between them, fingers stretched out to her.

Hesitantly, she touches the tips of her fingers to his. She half expects him to flinch or pull away, but he doesn’t. Strange. 

“Good night, Yen.”

She falls asleep with her hand still in his.


	4. Fourth Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> as harbingers of spring, lilacs often symbolize first love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t @ me but I decided Yen’s eyes are brown at this point in her life. Brown eyes deserve more love and it’s my personal headcanon that Yennefer is so cool that her eyes just Did That when Tissaia asked her to imagine the most powerful woman in the world.

Yennefer has yet to fall asleep for the night when Geralt next appears in her barn. It’s not even fully dark yet. The last light of a warm summer evening still filters into the barn through the gaps between the wooden planks.

She scrambles to stand up, feeling oddly exposed, though she’s fully dressed. Somehow, something about Geralt appearing in daylight catches her off-guard even more than when his arrival jolts her from sleep.

“Geralt! What are you doing here?”

“I went to bed early.” He smiles, eyes lit with excitement. “I was hoping I’d see you, actually.”

There’s something awkward about his stance, she thinks, as he shifts his weight between his feet. He’s holding one arm behind his back at a strange angle. She hopes he hasn’t been injured in training again.

He takes a step towards her. “I have something for you. A gift.”

“For me?” She hesitates. “What kind of gift?”

In response, he ducks his head and holds out his hand, revealing a spray of pale purple blossoms. He offers them to her slowly, as though afraid she’ll refuse them.

Yennefer’s mouth falls slightly open. She stares at the flowers, uncertain and a bit frightened, until she can make herself meet his eyes.

Boys do not give her flowers. Is this some kind of joke?

“What is this?” Her voice sounds flat and hard even to her own ears.

“They’re for you.” Geralt's expression is shy. Almost nervous. “Lilac. Like your eyes.”

“Lilac?” she sputters. “My eyes are brown.”

“Are they?” He frowns, faltering. “I swear sometimes they look violet…”

“I know what color my eyes are, thanks.” She would feel like laughing at the absurdity of the situation if she was any less disoriented, certain she’s being mocked in some way. Her instincts are screaming at her that this is wrong, somehow, that she shouldn’t accept this.

Geralt blinks. “They’re still yours, if you want them. They reminded me of you.”

Still hesitant, sure this is some kind of trap, she takes the stems from his fingers, inhaling as she brings the blossoms to her chest. They smell...wonderful. Even better than the verbena he showed her in the woods. Like springtime and sunlight.

“Sorry they’re a bit crushed,” he says quickly. “I had to hide them to keep the others from seeing. I wasn’t sure they’d come with me if I woke up here, but they did—” He swallows. “It’s colder where I am, so they’re only just now in bloom.”

“I...I don’t know what to say.”

“Do you like them?”

She nods.

Immediately, his shoulders relax.

“I...Good. I hoped you would.”

“You were thinking about me?” She frowns, touching her fingertip to one of the delicate petals. 

“Of course. I mean—you’re the only person I know outside of Kaer Morhen. And...you’re my friend.”

His voice is uncertain, but not like he’s questioning whether he means what he says. More like he’s gauging her reaction. Yennefer suddenly feels light-headed, breathless, like she’s been standing in the sun for too long. She sinks down onto the closest bale of hay, still staring at the flowers in her hands.

Geralt brought these for her. They reminded him of _her_.

“Yen? Are you all right?”

She shakes her head, meaning to say _yes, I’m fine_ , but for some reason her voice won’t work. He’s sitting beside her in an instant, wrapping his arms around her as easily and as willingly as when he caught her by the waist when she refused to give him the bucket. As though she was someone who, without a second thought, could be touched and held and befriended—and loved.

“I’m sorry, Yen. Did I do something wrong?”

“No. No, you didn’t.”

She closes her eyes, unwilling to cry over a handful of flowers. The image of Geralt holding them out to her seems burned into her mind, the hesitancy with which he offered them, the shy smile at the corner of his mouth. She breathes in unsteadily, overwhelmed again by the scent of lilac.

Geralt’s grip on her, already gentle, loosens further. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”

She shakes her head. Her back aches, as usual, a long line of pain running from her jaw down her neck and through her shoulders and spine, but that has nothing to do with Geralt. If anything, it’s nice to have someone to lean against.

Emboldened by his arms around her, she rests her head on his shoulder, turning her face away to prevent him from reading her expression. She hears his breath catch for a moment before he slowly releases it, and she shuts her eyes again, trying to memorize the gentle touch of his hands and the warmth of his skin before he lets go.

But he doesn’t let go. He shifts so that his cheek rests against the top of her head. Her good shoulder is pressed up to his chest, so his hand falls directly on the curve of her spine, but he doesn’t flinch or pull away.

“You’re sure it doesn’t hurt?”

“It always hurts,” she admits. “But you can touch me. I’m not going to break.”

He laughs softly. “Okay.”

She realizes suddenly, as she leans back into him, that he isn’t quite so wiry as when they first met. Now she can feel solid muscle in his arms and chest, instead of only the sharp angles of bone.

She hopes that there isn’t straw in her hair.

It’s finally beginning to grow dark, the air stilling and cooling around them. Still Geralt doesn’t move, except for his fingers skimming slowly up and down her arm. In all Yennefer’s conscious memory, no one has ever held her like this. Never mind bringing her flowers or asking her if she was comfortable or calling her their friend. She stares down towards the blossoms in her hands, wondering whether Geralt knows or at least suspects this. Wondering when the last time someone held him was. For all the talk of his brothers that she’s heard during his previous visits, he seems in some ways as lonely as she is.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asks, breaking the companionable silence between them. “Is this…?”

“Yes. More than all right. It’s—I like this. It’s nice.” It’s easier to speak to him in the dark, she finds, even though she knows that he can see her far better than she can see him. But it feels safer. She always feels safer when no one else can see her.

She turns her head even further towards him, her nose pressing into his collarbone. “What are you thinking about?”

Geralt sighs. “I was thinking that I wish it could be like this all the time. That we could choose when to see each other. That we didn’t always have to be here, in the dark.”

“Where else would we go?”

He shrugs. “Anywhere. The Continent is a big place. We could just—leave.”

“Leave?” Yennefer twists, trying to make out his expression. He can’t possibly be serious, but he doesn’t sound like he’s joking, either.

“Why not?”

“And then what? You said it the first time we met. You’re a witcher. And I’m...who I am. What can we do to change that?”

“I don’t know. I just...I wish it was possible.”

“I thought you liked being a witcher.” She frowns, hesitant to even bring up the subject. When it comes to his training, it’s difficult to predict which topics will make his eyes light up with excitement and which will make him retreat, clearly reliving painful memories. She doesn’t know all that a witcher’s training entails, but it seems obvious that there’s more than he’s telling her. “It seems like you do, anyway.”

“I do. I mean, mostly.”

“Mostly?”

He sighs again. “The additional Trials I mentioned...I think they’re going to be soon. Maybe before we see each other again.”

“Oh. Is that such a bad thing?”

“It’s—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “They’re difficult.”

She sits up, searching for the right words. “Well, you’ve been through them once before, right? And you’ve had so much training since then.”

“Yeah, well. I don’t think training is going to help.”

“Why not?”

His luminous eyes flicker away from her. “The Trials aren’t tests, exactly. They’re more...procedures. And they’re painful. Very.” His voice gets softer with every word until it’s nearly inaudible. “Not everyone survives.”

“Oh.”

His mouth twists unhappily, and he won’t meet her eyes.

Yennefer feels ill, her heart racing as though it might beat out of her chest. She hadn’t considered this, the possibility of Geralt’s death. He seems so much more than human, so invincible. And he’s the one thing good thing in her life. Now it’s her turn to throw her arms around him, as though she could hold him there with her forever.

“Where would we go?” she asks. “If we left?”

He hums, thinking. “We could head west, maybe. I could hunt for us, trade the pelts for some coin. We could build a house somewhere.”

Yennefer laughs without thinking about it, imagining living in a house with Geralt like they were any two people in the world. “A house?”

Geralt shrinks back a little. “Well, we’d have to live somewhere. And...neither of us really have one, now.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t laughing at you. I just—a _house_.” She rests her head back against his shoulder, trying to picture it. “All right. A house. What then?”

“I could be an herbalist, maybe,” he continues, speaking slowly. “My mother was a healer, so I know the basics. And I would like it, I think.”

“And me? What would I do?” She means to sound playful, but the thought sours her vision of this picturesque future. How different could it be, really, from the life she already has?

“You could do whatever you’d like. I can hunt and cook—I’ll even sew for us. I already know how. You wouldn’t have to do a thing.”

“What?” Yennefer sits up, feeling her heart start to pound again.

Geralt blinks, confused by her outrage. “What?”

“Do you think, just because my spine is twisted and my shoulders crooked, it means I can’t take care of myself? That I’m useless?” Tears prick her eyes, but she refuses to cry. She thought Geralt was different, that he liked her, even cared for her, but now he’s just like everyone else, only seeing her as a liability. Maybe he feels sorry for her, living in a barn while her half-siblings have beds of their own and can imagine a future with themselves in it. Maybe he feels obligated to help her. But he doesn’t see her worth, only her helplessness.

“Of course not.” She sees his eyes widen, even in the dark. “Of course I don’t think that. I just thought you might not want to all the time.”

“What else would I do? I don’t know anything about being an herbalist. All I know how to do is take care of the pigs.” She looks down at the flowers in her lap, squeezing the stems until her knuckles go white. “I’d have to do something useful. You’d get tired of me.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“You would. People like me don’t—we don’t get to live for free. We don’t get to run away to a house in the woods and do whatever we’d like. Most of us don’t live that long, for one thing.” She’s seized by a sudden urge to throw the lilac blossoms down in the hay and crush them underfoot.

Only Geralt covering her hands with his stops her. “Oh, Yen—”

“Don’t. Don’t pity me. Don’t you dare.”

“I’m not.” His voice turns stronger. “I don’t.”

“What, then?”

He makes a sound of frustration low in his throat, like a growl. “I just wish it wasn’t like this. That we had a choice in what the rest of our lives were like. I hate that we might never see each other again.”

She closes her eyes, feeling tears spill over. “Me too.”

Geralt brings his hand to her face, cradling her head in his palm. He leans forward, and for an instant Yennefer thinks he’s going to kiss her, but he only runs his thumb beneath her eye, wiping away the tear tracks.

She sniffs. “At least we have right now.”

“That’s true.” He brushes her hair back from her eyes, winding a strand around his finger. She reaches up too, running her fingertips over the short hair that goes from his temple to the base of his skull. He closes his eyes, blinking contentedly, like a cat.

“Thank you for the flowers.” Her voice is barely a whisper.

He smiles without opening his eyes. “I’m glad you like them.”

“They’re lovely.”

“Like you, then.”

She blushes and ducks her head, but he’s already looking at her, his eyes warm. He studies her face for a long moment with his hand still tangled in her hair.

“Yen, listen, if this is the last time we see each other—”

She shakes her head. “No, Geralt, don’t. We’ll see each other again.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do. Let’s not talk about it anymore.”

“All right.” He shifts, making room for her in his arms again. “What do you want to talk about, then?”

She nestles into him, determined to make this last as long as she can. “Tell me more about the house in the woods.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ngl this chapter was the whole inspiration for this fic. I love the idea of Geralt bringing Yennefer flowers and am determined to single-handedly make this a trope in the witcher fandom. the visual parallel with Yennefer’s first appearance in the show, the reference to her signature perfume, the fact that Geralt is interested in plants and herbs and maybe even knows a little bit about flower symbolism...it’s just too good, y’all. 
> 
> also I said this was going to be 5 cute chapters and 1 sad one but lol I am an angst machine when it comes to this fandom! sorry!


	5. Fifth Visit

For the whole week after it happens, Yennefer hardly sleeps, waiting for Geralt’s return. During the day she slogs through her chores, riding the thrill of exhilaration that hasn’t faded despite her tiredness. She feels unstoppable, like she could do anything, her racing thoughts keeping her awake even when her body begs for sleep.

All her exhaustion disappears the moment he appears again. In her excitement, not to mention relief at seeing him alive and in one piece, she seizes him by the hand, forgetting any hesitation she might have had before. Before she knew she could do magic.

“Yen?” Geralt’s voice is bemused, startled by her sudden energy, but she sees the corner of his mouth twitch.

“You were right,” she says. “Or your medallion was, anyway.”

“I—what?”

“Geralt, I can do magic. I opened a portal. I mean, I didn’t mean to, but I did somehow—”

His eyebrows shoot up. “A portal?”

“Yes! It was just like when you show up here—a flash of light, and then I was somewhere else, and there was a boy who said I must have portalled in, and—” she pauses, breathless. “Wait. Do you think that’s how you get here? Can witchers create portals?”

“Not that I know of. Definitely not by accident.”

“Maybe it’s me bringing you here, then. All this time, I could do magic and didn’t know it! Me! Magic!” She clings to his forearms, almost dancing with joy. Just knowing that she has access to some kind of mysterious power, even if she can’t fully control it, makes her feel invincible. Who knows what she might be able to do someday. The house in the woods doesn’t feel so very far away anymore.

“Yen, that’s incredible.” Geralt sounds genuinely delighted. She beams, and he blushes. “You’re incredible.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Of course I do.” His smile widens, granting her just a glimpse of teeth. She finds herself staring at his mouth for a moment, transfixed. Then she gathers her courage and stands up on her toes to kiss him.

His head snaps back the instant her lips meet his. “What are you doing?”

Immediately, Yennefer drops his arms and backs away, her hands coming up to guard her chest and face. He follows her.

“Yen, wait—”

“Sorry,” she gasps. “Sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

He stops, holding out his hands. “Yen, it’s all right. I’m not upset.”

He looks upset. Though not angry, true. But his eyes are wide, his jaw tightly clenched.

She freezes. “You’re not?”

“I’m not.”

The combination of his steady voice and open hands convince her he’s telling the truth, but she doesn’t step closer. “Then why…?”

He frowns, looking almost confused. “Yen, I’m a witcher.”

She shakes her head. “So?”

He makes a frustrated gesture, searching for the words to explain. “You wouldn’t want to kiss a vampire. Or a drowner.”

“But you’re not either of those things.”

“Yes, but you’re…” he pauses, his expression pained. “Human, at least.”

“And you’re not?”

“No, not truly. Not anymore.”

“Geralt, what on earth are you talking about?”

He gives her a look as though she’s being dense on purpose. “Even you thought I was a demon when you first saw me.”

“You appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the night! What was I supposed to think?”

He sighs. “Yen, people just don’t kiss witchers.”

“People don’t kiss me, either!” She crosses her arms in front of her and looks away, embarrassed and hurt. “I thought that you liked me.”

“I _do_. I just want to make sure you’re—you know what you’re doing.”

“Of course I know what I’m doing.”

“Well…” He sighs again. “Okay, then.”

She glances back at him. “Are you sure?”

He nods. “If you are.”

“I’m sure.”

She takes a step forward, watching his face carefully for any sign of hesitation or disgust. He looks back at her. Wary, but also...wanting.

He stands as still as a statue when she kisses him, but when she puts her hands somewhere in the vicinity of his waist, not knowing what else to do with them, he sighs into her mouth, the tension in his jaw loosening by a fraction of a degree. When it’s clear she’s not going to recoil from him in horror, he relaxes further, bringing his arms up to hold her, too.

Yennefer has very little to go on in this area, but she thinks Geralt may be quite a good kisser. He moves slowly but purposefully, and his mouth is warm, though his teeth are far sharper than she expected. He presses one hand into the small of her back, the other gently tracing the line of her jaw. She feels nearly giddy with all of this new sensory input, her skin as alive with feeling as when she discovered she could do magic.

She pulls away first, but only far enough to hide her face against his chest. She needs to catch her breath, and she fears that looking into his eyes just now will prevent that. His heartbeat is incredibly slow. Hers, meanwhile, is racing.

“See?” she says. “Was that so bad?”

“No. Not bad at all.” She can hear the smile in his voice. “You were right.”

“About what?”

“You do know what you’re doing.”

She grins, blushing fiercely. Then another thought occurs to her, and she looks up.

“You don’t have to kiss me just because I’m the only girl you know.”

He laughs. “I’m not.”

“You’re sure?” She would hate nothing as much as knowing that he’s only kissing her out of sympathy, or because he’s practicing for the real thing.

“Yen, it’s not like I’m the only witcher in training, you know. You’re the first girl I’ve kissed, not the first _person_.”

“Oh.” She can feel herself blushing an even deeper red.

He smiles, lifting his hand to run his thumb across her cheekbone. “Sorry. Does that surprise you?”

“No,” she says quickly. I just hadn’t thought of it.”

His expression shifts, becoming more serious. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone else, though.”

She glances away, suddenly overwhelmed. It doesn’t feel real, that she could kiss Geralt and discover magic all in the same week. It feels like a dream she doesn’t want to wake up from. Surely she, a common bastard farmgirl with a twisted spine, can’t have both.

“Yen? Are you all right?”

“Fine.”

He lets his hand fall from her face to her shoulder, the good one. “Are you sure?”

She nods.

He looks at her for a moment longer, studying her face. Before she can think of something to say, he leans forward to kiss her this time. His other hand comes up to her elbow, and though his touch is light she feels inexplicably safe. It’s far more comfortable with him leaning down to her than it was standing on her toes.

Feeling bolder now that _Geralt_ has kissed _her_ , she puts her hands deliberately on his hips, pulling him closer to her. She feels him smile into the kiss, his hand squeezing her shoulder.

When they break apart he doesn’t move away, instead resting his forehead against hers. He breathes out slowly, closing his eyes.

“You’re so beautiful, Yen.”

She laughs. “Who, me?”

His eyes snap open. “Of course I mean you.”

“What’s beautiful about me?”

He frowns and leans back, keeping his hand on her shoulder. "Lots of things, Yen. Your eyes. Your hair. Your hands.” He takes her wrist and raises it to his lips, kissing the skin on the inside of her forearm.

She tenses. “Are you making fun of me?”

“No!” His eyes widen, expression horrified. “Of course not.”

She can feel her jaw trembling and ducks her head before Geralt can see.

He backtracks quickly. “I’ve upset you. I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head again.

“Don’t cry, Yen.”

“I’m not crying.” She wipes the back of her hand across her eyes. “You actually mean it?”

“ _Yes_ , Yen. I think you’re…”

“What?”

He looks away, embarrassed. “The best person I’ve ever met.”

She barely manages to hold in her gasp. He’s continuously surprising her, making her feel wanted again and again, even when she can’t imagine why. She takes another step towards him and wraps her arms around his waist.

He hugs her back, automatically, it seems. “I care about you, Yen. You—you make me feel more human.”

Yennefer squeezes her eyes shut, pressing even closer to him. The top of her head doesn’t even come up to his chin, but she feels as though she fits perfectly in his arms. She hopes he understands that he does the same for her.

He speaks without moving. “So, where did your portal take you?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere underground, it seemed like. There were these columns of bone...A cave, maybe, although there was light coming from somewhere.”

“Hmm. But there was already someone there?”

She nods, looking up at him. “Istredd, he said his name was. He could make portals, too. He said that she’d be looking for me.”

“‘She?’” Geralt frowns

Yennefer can only shrug. “He didn’t say. He said something about a tower...the Tower of the Gull?”

Geralt shakes his head, clearly nonplussed.

“What will you do now?” he asks.

“I don’t know. I can’t do it on purpose...Not yet, anyway.”

Geralt’s eyes flicker away from her face in the direction of the house. “Do your parents—?”

“They don’t know anything. No one knows. Just you.”

“And Istredd.”

“And whoever ‘she’ is. I suppose.”

“I guess a lot of people might be interested in you if you can open a portal out of nowhere.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“Please be careful?” he asks, his frown deepening.

“I’ll try.”

He nods and kisses her temple, holding on as though reluctant to let go.

She squirms out of his grip. “You won’t. Don’t be so dramatic.”

He laughs, a little weakly. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right.” She takes his hand, squeezing in a way she hopes is reassuring. And then yawns widely.

He smiles. “Tired?”

“I’ve hardly been able to sleep,” she admits.

“Let’s go to bed, then.”

Lying next to Geralt with his arms around her, Yennefer sleeps better than she has in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just one week until the Sad!


	6. Final Visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> emetophobia warning just in case
> 
> oof, sorry this is late in the day. my brain was not cooperating.

Yennefer sits up at the now-familiar burst of light, looking around the barn for Geralt. This time, though, there is no spark of fire or flash reflected from Geralt’s eyes. She doesn’t hear anything, either, other than the rush of wind outside.

“Geralt? Are you there?”

When there’s no response, she feels her way to the other side of the barn, where the burst of light usually originates. In the darkness, she can make out no more than a vague shape lying in the hay, completely still.

Her breath catches. “Geralt?”

She reaches out and touches what feels like his shoulder. He groans and shifts slightly under her touch, but it’s him. And he’s alive. For now.

Yennefer stands again and cracks open the door of the barn to let the starlight trickle in. As she turns back, the clouds obscuring the nearly-full moon blow away. She covers her mouth with her hand, stifling a shriek.

It is Geralt, but nearly unrecognizable. His hair has gone white at the roots and is streaked through with silver, as though all the color has been bled out of him. Loose and unbound, it’s fallen over half of his face, which is pale as chalk and mottled with dark, branching veins.

He has blood on his lips. Both dried and fresh.

Yennefer shudders. Death scares her, and she is no use around sick and dying things. She does not know what to do or how to help him. Every instinct tells her to look away. But this is no injured piglet or starving stray cat; this is Geralt. He would not abandon her if their situations were reversed.

She makes herself sit down next to him again and take his hand. His skin is dreadfully cold. If not for his labored breathing, she would wonder whether any life remained in him at all. He stirs at her touch and blinks, focusing on her with obvious effort.

Yennefer forces down another scream. Geralt’s eyes, once a reflective amber, have turned a solid black, as dark as pitch.

“Yen?” His voice is low, strained, and rough, not like him at all. Hoarse, she realizes, from screaming. Before she can think to stop herself, she reaches up to cradle his face with her free hand. He tilts his head toward her palm, his eyes drifting shut again.

“You’re warm, Yen,” he murmurs.

"Geralt, what happened?"

He doesn't respond, his grip on her fingers already loosening. 

“Stay with me. You have to stay with me, Geralt.” She feels panic choking her and tries to swallow it down. “Don’t die. Please don’t die.”

With obvious effort, he forces his eyes open and looks up at her.

Yennefer’s hands and voice shake as she fights to hold back tears. “What did they do, Geralt? What happened to to you?”

“T-the extra Trials...they, ah—” He breaks off with a sharp groan, his back arching suddenly against the pain. The spasm passes and he curls in on himself, his face beaded with sweat. Tears trickle down his cheeks as he stares past her at nothing.

She clings to his hand, petting his shoulder awkwardly with the other.

“Stay still,” she urges him. “Don’t move. You don’t have to talk.”

His fingers twitch against her palm. “S-stay.”

“I’ll stay. I’ll stay.” She squeezes his hand, trying to convey reassurance rather than fear, and brushes the hair from his forehead. His eyes are so dark and altered that she wonders that his tears aren’t a deep, inky black too.

“I thought I’d never see you again.” He sounds agitated, afraid, and only by pressing down on his shoulder can Yennefer keep him from trying to sit up. “This isn’t like the last time.” He swallows hard. “Those Trials made me sick, but not like this—”

She doesn’t know what to say to console him. All her thoughts are consumed by the fear that he’s going to die here beside her, that this will be the last time they ever see each other. She doesn’t know what to do. Seeing him like this somehow hurts more than being in pain herself. And there’s nothing she can do to help him.

“Yen, say something.”

She sniffs, swiping the tears away from her eyes. “I’m here, Geralt. It—it’ll be okay.”

“Promise,” he gasps.

“I promise.” She can’t tell how lucid he is, how aware he is of what’s happening to him. She certainly has no baseline for what the effects of the Trials should look like. All she can do is try to calm him, when she herself feels like screaming.

She runs her fingers through his hair, studying the changes from light to dark. He shudders, but his breathing evens slightly.

“Yen?”

“What is it?”

“What—” He stops and licks his lips. Swallows. “What do I look like? Now?”

She stiffens and then forces herself to relax, keeping her voice steady. “Why?”

“No one will tell me. The others, they all looked at me like you did, like they were horrified. But they wouldn’t say anything. Is it—so bad?”

“It’s—surprising,” Yennefer manages. “Your hair’s going white.”

“Oh. That’s all?”

She hesitates. “Your eyes too. They’re...dark, now.”

“Dark?”

“...Black.”

His damaged voice comes out flat and hard. “Like a monster’s.”

“You’re _not_ a monster.”

“But I look like one.”

Anger flares deep within her. “They did this to you. They hurt you, made you like this. _They’re_ the monsters.”

He falls silent again, shivering in the straw with his jaw clenched tight. Yennefer realizes she’s still gripping his hand and loosens her hold on his fingers. He exhales in a long, shuddering breath.

“Yen, it hurts.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I wish I could make it stop. I'm sorry.” Her voice breaks and she looks away, feeling hot tears spill over her cheeks. Anger, sorrow, and terror swirl together in her stomach, making her want to scream or vomit, she doesn’t know which. If she only knew how to use her magic, she would heal him, protect him, take revenge on those who did this to him.

Pulling herself together, she lies down next to Geralt and puts her arm around him. He’s so _cold_ —cold and sharp-edged, like stone. Her back and shoulder protest at lying on her side like this, but she knows it’s only a fraction of what Geralt is feeling.

“Does this hurt? More, I mean?”

“No.” His eyes drift closed, and he clings to her arm.

She presses her forehead to the side of his face and closes her eyes too, though she has no hope of sleeping.

Hours pass. Yennefer marks the time only through the state of Geralt’s breathing, tensing when grows harsh and labored and relaxing when it deepens. He seems to have moments of lucidity interspersed among long stretches of insensible pain, during which she can only hold onto him and whisper meaningless comforts.

As morning approaches, Geralt’s whole body seizes, fighting through some internal upheaval Yennefer can’t fathom. He retches, but nothing comes up from his empty stomach. All she can do is hold his head up so he doesn’t choke. After what feels like an eternity, he goes limp again, his eyes staring up at the roof of the barn.

He’s still there with her when the sky begins to lighten. In Vengerberg. 

“It’ll be dawn soon,” she says, feeling panic rise back up in her chest. “I have to hide you. If my family sees you here—”

She lets the rest of the sentence hang in the air unspoken, unsure how much Geralt is listening to her, anyway. Limbs stiff, she struggles to her feet. There are piles of hay for the hogs around the edges of the barn, and unless she’s very unlucky, no one will find Geralt behind one of them. She works her arms under his shoulders and drags him towards one of the stacks, shocked by how light he is now.

It’s still hard going, though, as he’s completely dead weight and she fears hurting him even further.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. as he grits his teeth, biting back a groan. “Sorry.”

He manages to lift his arm and catch her hand as she settles him back in the hay. His eyes are wide and scared. She can tell, even through the solid black.

“Yen, don’t go. Please—don’t leave me.”

“I have to,” she whispers, tears clouding her vision again. “I have chores—they’ll look for me. I’ll come back as soon as I can, I promise.” She leans over and presses her lips to his cheek. “I’ll be back. Just—just rest.”

She has to pry his fingers away from her arm.

Yennefer rushes through her work as quickly as possible, but all morning her thoughts are occupied with worry for Geralt. Everything she does seems to take three times as long as usual. She fears he will slip away from her each minute she’s away from the barn.

When she returns around midday, he’s worse, but still alive. Feverish now, he seems not to recognize her, weakly pushing away her hands when she offers him broth and a bit of bread. It’s all the food she’s likely to see today, so she waits until he calms somewhat and tries again. This time he manages the broth, at least.

In the full daylight, she can make out every line of pain around his mouth and unnaturally black eyes, every white strand in his once-dark hair. She can see the way his clavicle and the bones of his wrists jut out from under the skin. His face is so pale now that even this close, she can no longer see the freckles that used to dust his cheekbones. Now, they’ve been replaced with those branching black lines, like cracks in marble.

His eyes stay fixed on hers, but she can see he’s struggling. His whole body starts to shake – or convulse, she isn’t sure – and he gasps for air like he’s drowning on dry land. She fears each pained breath will be his last. Yet, somehow, he keeps fighting.

“What do I do? Is there anything I can do?” she asks him desperately when the tremors subside. “How do I help you? Tell me.”

He stares up at her, still breathing heavily. “Yen, you can’t. I’m sorry. There’s nothing you can do.”

“There has to be something. What about the others? The ones who received the additional Trials with you. Did they all react like this?”

“They died, Yen. They all died. Everyone but me.”

She seizes his hand. She _can’t_ lose him. Not now, when she’s only just found him. “You’re not going to die. You can’t. I...I won’t let you.” She sets her shoulders. Steadies her voice. “I _won’t_ let you die.”

“How—” he breaks off, coughing. “How are you going to do that?”

“I’ll think of something. Just please try to stay still.”

“Sorry,” he says weakly. “Yen, I’d hoped...I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

She shakes her head. “You hoped…? Geralt, how long have you been like this?”

He coughs again. “Six days? That’s what Eskel told me, anyway.”

“Six _day_ _s_!”

“I’m sorry, Yen, I don’t—”

“Stop. Stop apologizing.” She would put her hand over his mouth if she weren’t worried about suffocating him. “Don’t say anything else.”

Yennefer has seen Geralt just over a handful of times, and then only in the dark, but she can read his expression as clearly as if he’d spoken. He believes that he’s going to die.

She’s equally certain that he won’t. She takes up the heel of bread again. “You should try to eat. You’ll need your strength.”

He doesn’t resist her, but it’s clear he doesn’t think it will help. Still, he manages to finish most of it before turning his head away, plainly exhausted. She brushes his hair from his face, concerned by the heat now radiating from his dry skin. Just a few hours ago he had been cool to her touch.

She doesn’t want to leave him, but she knows she has to prevent anyone from finding him in the barn.

“I have to go. I’ll bring you some water. Try to rest.”

He nods, barely awake.

When she returns he has thrown all the food back up again. His fever is higher than ever and he still shakes uncontrollably. He looks utterly miserable, defeated, even, and he’s too weak to even raise his head when she walks in.

She persuades him to take a drink of water, but even that comes back up within minutes. He continues retching even after his stomach is emptied, though he barely has the strength to sit up. She coaxes him onto his side and holds his head up so that at least he isn’t lying in sick.

A moment later, a sudden gush of red makes her heart skip a beat. Geralt chokes, shoulders heaving as he gags, and Yennefer realizes with a flood of relief that the blood is coming from his nose, not his mouth. Regaining control of herself, she tears off a scrap from the hem of her dress and holds it to his face, trying to stop him from swallowing too much of the flow.

She can tell he’s panicking, his legs spasming and his hands scrabbling in the hay as waves of pain rip through him and the flow of blood increases. The more he panics, the worse the pain grows.

With a strength she didn’t know she possessed, Yennefer pulls him as gently as she can into her arms, tipping his head back.

“Breathe, Geralt. You’ve got to breathe. Through your mouth.” She sounds much calmer than she feels, guided by some sense of capability that comes from outside herself.

He groans, his lips pulled back in a grimace.

“It’ll pass. It’s only blood. It’ll pass in a moment.”

And it does, the blood gradually congealing and coming to a stop. Geralt looks even worse than before, if such a thing is possible, still chalk-white and fevered with blood dripping down his chin. The pain must still be worse than before—she can feel him tensed in her arms. Yennefer wants to cry, in fear mixed with relief, but she refuses to let Geralt see that she’s scared for him. She swallows her tears instead and holds onto him as night begins to fall once more.

Suddenly he goes rigid, his eyes shooting open. Yennefer just manages to cover his mouth to stifle his scream as he writhes in her grip, his back arching in agony. His voice is _wrecked_ , barely human. After what feels like hours, his scream tapers off into a whine, then shallow gasps of pain. Her palm comes away flecked with blood. She turns his face towards her shoulder as he starts to cry broken, breathless sobs that seem to pierce her chest through. She wraps her arms around him, rocking him and stroking his hair as though he was a child.

His voice gives out eventually, but it takes much longer for his shoulders to stop shaking. He quiets—more from exhaustion, she thinks, than any feeling of relief. Her own shoulders stiff and uncooperative from holding him up for so long, she helps him lie flat again, lying down on her side next to him.

“Do you think you can sleep?” she asks.

“I don’t want to.” His eyes snap open again. “If I sleep, you might be gone when I wake up.”

“I won’t leave. I promise. Please?”

He looks at her for a long moment, his black eyes shining in the moonlight that filters into the barn. Finally, he lets out a breath. “I’ll try.”

She nods and squeezes his hand. “I’ll be right here.”

She doesn’t mean to fall asleep too, but she hasn’t slept in hours and she’s drained by the sense of urgent anxiety which has propelled her for the whole day. First her eyes close against her will, and then she drifts into uneasy sleep. Just as she falls into deeper sleep, she remembers Geralt and jolts awake with a gasp.

But when she turns her head towards him, he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> curious to see how this matches up with what y'all were expecting...


End file.
